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There were things about Dante that Nero could guarantee. The elder man was juvenile, agitating, childish, immature and an idiot. He was the kind of man who thought with his gun or his penis and saved little thought for intelligent or complex conversations and ideas. He liked women with huge tits and flirted with everything, including the demons he killed. Nero was sure he would hit on a post box if he thought he might get something from it.
In short, Dante was a modern neanderthal.
"He gives me this room and he didn't even clean it, the bastard."
Nero had been surprised by the state of Devil May Cry when he entered the place. He figured that with Trish around as much as she was, that the place wouldn't be a total dump. There wasn't even a tv or a music player. Just a jukebox, which was in remarkably good condition. The desk and the phone were ancient, along with the chair, though it looked recently polished and reupholstered (Trish's work, most likely).
When Dante had told him what room he was going to be sleeping in, he had barked an incredulous laugh at the piss-poor excuse for a mattress situated under the looming shadows of massive piles of haphazard boxes. That lead to Nero's current situation.
He decided, a month in and the second day's worth of downtime they had gotten (Dante was busier than he had given him credit for with the state of the shop: he'd barely been able to keep up as the caveman danced around, playing with some weaponized suitcase), that he was going to organize his room and set aside the boxes, if not throw them out.
So far, the dust had been suffocating and repulsive - there was never a larger pig than Dante. Fortuna had been less of a mess after the Saviour incident than his room was.
"God, does he clean anything?"
Okay, maybe that was too far. Dante was clean where it mattered - the kitchen (despite or perhaps because of its lack of use) was spotless and Lady could (and regularly did) apply her makeup in the sink of the bathroom, it was polished to such a shine. Everywhere else was fair game, with planks of wood falling off the walls and splinters developing in the floor of the shopfront.
But this room looked like it hadn't been touched in ages. Only the top rows of boxes looked fresh, as if they hadn't been there too long. And it was in the trying to reach these boxes that Nero's Devil Bringer tore through the cardboard and the contents of the box fell straight into his face, bringing him down with them.
"Aw, for fuck's sake, what am I going to have to clean up now?"
When Nero sat up, he was surprised. He didn't know what he had expected to find, but worn-out books were not it. There had to have been hundreds of them inside that box, because there were well-know and/or high class authors laying all around him - Stephen King, John Grisham, Tom Clancy. Even C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien and Shakespeare were amongst the litterings. That wasn't even to mention all the names he didn't recognize. And the genres . . . there were romance novels, mystery books, Biblical analysis papers, historical fiction, chemistry textbooks, Stephen Hawking works and everything in between. And that was just one box . . .
By the time Nero was finished, he found twenty of such boxes. There was also one chest, with a key hanging from a necklace around the lock. With his curiosity piqued about his new boss/'purely physical' crush, he opened it.
Inside, there were leather-bound journals, dyed blue or red, of varying sizes and wear. Some looked newer than others, but they all looked over forty years old, locked away from their writers. But, obviously, someone had gone through them, because the newest-looking ones were at the bottom. There was only one oddly coloured journal there, and it was small, like a pocketbook. Nero picked it up and opened it, finding scrawl that was most likely someone's handwriting.
Vergil, December 20th, 1965.
I failed my chemistry test today. God, I studied for a week and it didn't matter. I went over all the notes, compared them with classmates, got help from teachers. Still, failure. And then, to top off this day, I lose to Dante in front of our father in our spar. I can feel his disappointment, I swear I can.
On the page next to it is semi-handwriting, but much more legible than the previous. It was written in red gel pen.
Dante, December 20th, 1965.
Dad's not disappointed Vergil. He never has been. He loves you, he really does. We all do. So what you failed a lousy chemistry test? What do we need chemistry for when we start up our demon hunting business? Cheer up! I'll buy you ice cream tomorrow, okay? We'll go the whole day.
Dante, December 21th, 1965.
I think this problem might go beyond what ice cream can fix, and I'd never thought I'd say that.
Vergil, December 21th, 1965.
Idiot. We're fifteen. Ice cream won't solve it like it did when we were five. I don't think it solved it then.
Dante - you're being a drama queen again.
Vergil - Use your capitals, idiot. And this is serious.
Dante - THEN TELL ME WHAT'S GOING ON.
Vergil - Not if you keep being infantile.
Dante - Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell me what's up.
Vergil
Dante, December 31st, 1965.
Vergil won't tell me what's wrong. He keeps flinching when I touch him. What's going on in his head?
Dante, January 1st, 1966.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK. we can't find Vergil. He's vanished. Mom's worried Mundus finally caught up with us. Dad's out looking for him. For the love of God, Vergil, come home. Come home so you can read this and tell me I'm an idiot.
Dante, March 16th, 1966.
We've been looking for well over three months now. We can't find him. I quit school to keep looking.
Dante, July 22nd, 1966.
Mom's stopped crying. She also didn't ask me about Vergil when I came home today.
Dante, September 9th, 1966.
Mundus caught us. Dad gave us time so we could run. I don't think I'll ever see him again.
December 31st, 1966.
You know who it is, by now. Well, I found him. Whoo.
I told him Dad's dead.
. . .
He's never coming back.
January 10th (maybe?), 1971 (who knows).
I wonder if he knows he's alive.
I wonder if he knows Mom's not.
A week later, they had another surprising day off. This time, Nero's room was clean and he had already straightened and cleaned the entrance as much as the old wood would allow. He was experiencing boredom for the first time ever at Devil May Cry.
"What's on your mind, kid?"
Who's Vergil? Who's Mundus? how do you know your dad died? What happened to your mother? "I didn't know you read books."
Dante blinked at him. "Of course."
It seemed like such a simple reply, so open and unbaited, that Nero's mouth took over before he could come up with a better response than the one he had. "You just don't seem like the type."
Dante raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
Stop, stop, stop! You're gonna get us killed! "You seem too stupid."
"You don't need a degree to read a book."
For the love of God! "But you do to read Stephen Hawking."
Dante didn't move. He stared at Nero, watching his every move. Suddenly, he tossed his porn magazine on the table to reveal J.R.R Tolkein's The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrun. "You should learn something, kid, and learn it well. Just because someone's simple, doesn't mean they're a simpleton."
Fuck! Stop! He's getting fed up now! Stop! "Well, what are you reading?"
"It's a Norse lyrical epic translated into English about two destined lovers and a betrayed warrior. Her name is Brynhild."
Nero nodded dumbly, hardly knowing how to handle it. Seeing books weathered and over-read in his room was one thing, but hearing Dante just spit out what the story was . . . It was overwhelming. His mouth kicked in again, ruining any chances of him getting out of this encounter unharmed. "If you're smart enough to read those books, then why haven't you cleaned this place up yet?"
"I don't have a lot of time off."
"You're off now."
Dante's eyebrows shot into his hairline before he marked his place in the book, over halfway, and lent back in his chair, posture nonchalant, but eyes piercing. "What do you really think of me, kid?"
"You don't take care of anything." Nero said slowly. "The front room needs to be completely redone. You don't seem to care about anything or anyone unless you get paid for it, it brings you pizza, or you'll get a lay from it."
Dante kept staring. "And yet, here you are - living with me, eating the food I buy and not paying a penny's worth of rent. You never said thank you, you never gave me back Yamato and I let you do whatever you want while still having your back whenever and wherever you need me to. That seems like an awful lot of effort for someone I don't care about."
"No, I-"
"You said what you meant in an unguarded moment. Don't lie to me." Dante's eyes were like lasers. "What else?"
Nero guiltily reached into his coat and pulled out the small, purple book that he had taken from the chest and tossed it onto the table between them. Dante's eyes followed it and he recoiled from it as if it burned to be within its radius.
"Where did you find that?"
"It was in a chest in my room. I was looking though all the books you had stored there and this was the journal I picked up." Nero cringed as Dante locked eyes with him. "I'm sorry."
Gingerly, Dante picked it up, walking over to Pandora, hanging from the wall, and clicked open the latches, getting ready to toss the book inside before he heaved a heavy sigh and closed her again. He dropped it on the ground and collapsed back in his chair.
"My father was over four thousand years old before my mother was born." Dante said, voice low and melancholy. "They met in 1940, and were married in 1945. Vergil and I were born in 1950. My mother, Eva, used to sing us songs and play old vinyls from her youth. We didn't have a radio, and she only had those. She said that an event was going on. She called it Korea and said that bad and selfish things were happening.
"In 1964, Kennedy was shot. 1965, Lyndon Johnson started the Vietnam war. We still didn't have a radio and Mom didn't want a television. Dad kept us safe and taught us how to use swords in the meantime, to keep our minds away from what was happening outside. We'd sparred from the age of seven, but he gave us real weapons, steel swords, to spar with. The blades were blunt, but that was okay. We didn't break these like the wooden ones. And, in November of 1965, Dad gave me Rebellion and Vergil Yamato.
"Vergil disappeared in the beginning of 1966. Dad was captured by Mundus and executed that August. If he hadn't been looking for Vergil it wouldn't have happened. Mom and I moved to Capulet City that September, leaving Paradise and everything we owned behind. On Mother's Day, 1970, Mom died of ovarian cancer."
Wait, is my mouth moving? "I didn't know when I called you 'old man' that I was really close."
"My father was four thousand years old and the demons didn't consider him to be halfway though his life." Dante said, eyes once more trained on Nero, but foggier this time, like he was fighting back bad memories. "At the very least, I'll live four thousand years. Do you know what that means Nero?"
His voice dropped to a whisper. "No."
"I'll be the one who buries you. I'll bury Lady, too. And I'll look the same as I do now. I might even have to bury Trish, depending on how well Mundus made her. I'll outlive you all. I've already outlived my family and I'm not one my first century. How the hell am I supposed to live through forty of them?"
Nero suddenly found swallowing very hard. "Dante, I didn't mean to- to- upset you, or bring up bad memories or thoughts . . ."
Dante shook his head, tossing a weary, but understanding smile his way. "Nah. I shouldn't be spilling my soul to a kid, now should I?"
"Does Trish know?"
Dante's voice lowered again. "Trish is the only one that knows."
"Whose journals were in that chest?"
"Vergil and I used to write them together. If you read the dates together, it'll look like a conversation between us on paper." Dante let out a fond chuckle, but it was short and sad. "Mom and Dad used to read them at night after we went to sleep. I remember them laughing and I can still see the faces they drew on the pages and the sweet little notes in the margins. But that was a long time ago."
"What changed all that?"
"Vergil forgot he was a person."
Nero dropped his head down. He had to stop bringing up Vergil: it only made Dante more melancholy, more unhappy. "I'll, ah, I'm gonna hit the sheets."
As he was climbing the stairs, he heard Dante. "Hey, kid."
"Yeah?"
"I care about you. I care about you, and Lady, and Trish, and Vergil. I care about all of you, more than you can imagine. You'll always have a home here, even when you're long gone."
"Don't write me off so easily. Someone has to take care of your lazy ass. Besides, I've got the blood of Sparda in me, too. Maybe I'll last just as long."
Dante's laugh followed him up. "Stuck with a punk like you the rest of my days? Well, there have been worse fates."